The Cafe
Present Day
Amanda was attempting to recover from her amused laughter, brought on by the memory of her first glimpses of Methos as the weary and wounded traveler that had to be carried to safety by Rebecca. Oh, if only she knew then what she knew now! Methos for his part, had remained oddly quiet, a contemplative expression on his face very suited to Adam Pierson, except for the almost preternatural stillness that went with it. And the noticeably striking gold eyes.
"Methos?"
Amanda's question brought him at least part-way back from wherever his mind had wandered. "Hmm?"
"Penny for your thoughts," she offered.
Methos shrugged, a resigned gesture. "I never knew she carried me in," he confessed, still seemingly staring off into contemplative nothingness. "I always thought some servant or other brought me."
"Well it's like Rebecca said. We couldn't have you coming back from the dead in the arms of an unsuspecting mortal now, could we?"
"Well, no," Methos conceded. "But most of the mortals in the abbey knew about immortals anyway."
"True…" Amanda shrugged, defeated. "I don't know then."
Methos's contemplative look was then suddenly washed away by one of reminded amusement. "I'll never forget that one nun though," he said with a smile. "She was there when I, er, woke up." At Amanda's questioning look he added, "You know, the one who spent all her time either in the library or the infirmary with an old scroll or tome two inches from her nose?"
Amanda laughed as well, in fond memory. "Sister Miranda," she said with a nod.
"Former sister Miranda," Methos corrected, still very much amused.
"In the entire time that I knew her, she was never seen out of nun's robes," Amanda deflected.
Methos shrugged. "I guess the habit was hard to break?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. Amanda tossed a sugar packet at him for his efforts. "She was a gem though," he said at length, suddenly turning wistful, serious.
"Yeah, she was," Amanda agreed, adopting that same mood.
Abbey St. Anne
Several hours later
The sun was just starting to set on the western horizon. It cast long shadows about the room that fell in a kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass windows. The immortal currently occupying one of the beds, now fully healed and only held in the realm of unconsciousness by the tethers of mortal sleep, finally began to stir. He moaned and stretched his legs, quite pleased to find his muscles only stiff and not tired and sore, as they had been in his previous memories.
Yet with the memory of pain came the memory of events, and the immortal was instantly on alert, rising bolt upright in bed and attempting to discern any threats that his mind was certain were lingering.
"Peace, young master," came a kindly old voice from across the room.
The immortal's head snapped around, and his eyes rested on an elderly nun sitting at a small reading desk, a very large volume in front of her. Her soft grey eyes were regarding him just about as intensely as he was regarding her.
"Where am I?" the immortal asked, his tone guarded and conveying none of the anxiety he felt. "Sister?" he added as an afterthought.
The nun's soft smile held both tolerance and amusement. "Well, you're in the abbey of course! And I'm not a true servant of the Good Lord. Not anymore. It's just Miranda now, but sister if you wish."
Methos filed this information away for later use, his mind attempting to process only one fact: he had made it to the abbey! … Rebecca's abbey. Oh, dear...
"How long was I…" Methos trailed off, not entirely sure how to ask the question without giving anything away.
"Oh, you healed up nicely for an hour or so," Miranda began. "I think you came back around about then, too. You've been lost to a mere mortal sleep for the rest of the afternoon. I expect the evening meal will be served relatively soon."
Methos sat in bed, jaw hanging open, as Miranda informed him of his body's progression. "How do you—"
"Oh I always keep watch over those in the infirmary, whether they be blessed like The Lady or no. I've been right here this whole time."
"You've been watching over me?" Methos asked, incredulous and yet oddly touched.
Miranda smiled warmly. "The Lady and I agree that no one should wake alone."
Methos nodded. "Very considerate of you." Then he took stock of his person, noticing that his clothes had been changed. Now he wore a longer tunic, sufficiently covering him, but no pants. "My clothes?"
"Oh, they've been taken away to be cleaned and mended. You can wear that until you find something more to your liking." The former nun indicated the long tunic he had on now.
Methos nodded, slightly bewildered and overwhelmed at everything, but grateful nonetheless. "Is there somewhere I can freshen up?" he asked finally.
"The Lady has a room all set for you," Miranda informed him. "We just didn't want to move you 'til you woke up. I can take you there if you like."
"Please?"
Miranda stood, and Methos discovered that she wasn't much taller standing than sitting. She was a short, squat woman with large feet and small, stubby hands. Her smile was a kind one though, and there was a sharpness in her twinkling eyes. Methos suspected that there was much more to her than met the eye.
"If you don't mind my asking," Methos spoke up, interrupting the slightly awkward silence (at least for him), that lingered as Miranda led him out of the infirmary and through the halls of the abbey.
"You want to know what a former nun is doing in an abbey?" Miranda supplied.
Methos blushed slightly, feeling sheepish. "It is an odd occurrence," he pointed out.
"Mmm," Miranda pondered. "I suspect it is. Well, my story's a bit on the long side, but to make it brief, I'll tell you that I'd spent the most of my life in the service of the Lord, before finding my way here. To cut straight to the root of my troubles, I guess you could say that I've always been too curious for my own good. Mother Superior always said it would land me into more trouble than I was worth, and the sort version says she was right."
"And the long version?" Methos asked, intrigued.
Miranda shot him a slanted glance, as though sizing him up out of the corner of her eye. Apparently though he measured up, because she continued: "A dowager lived out in the woodlands near our convent, and I took to visiting her on occasion. You know, bringing the message of the Lord to all the fine peoples of the world. Well, this dowager had a love of botany, and she knew all about how to use them: cooking, healing, dyes, teas--you name it and she could do it with those weeds of hers. Finally I asked her to teach me what she knew." Here Miranda sighed. It was a tired sigh, echoing regret. "I guess it's not surprising that word got back to the convent. I didn't make it secret that I had befriended our neighbors, after all. Well, you might have guessed, but they took her for a witch. Before I knew it they'd rallied the good townsfolk, and had themselves a good old-fashioned stoning. I'm pretty sure they'd meant to hang her, but of course she'd tried to run, and so they would have chased after her, thrown things... Made little difference, in the end."
"I'm sorry," Methos murmured, surprised at his own sentiment.
Miranda nodded her appreciation before finishing her tale. "They went easy on me of course, being a Lady of the Cloth. They just kicked me out of the only home I'd ever known, and told me that I couldn't enter heaven. Whoever decided that mortal men have the right to say who can and who can't enter heaven I'll never know. It doesn't say that anywhere in the books of Jesus that I've read."
"After getting kicked out you came to Rebecca?" Methos found it the better part of valor to keep his opinions on religion to himself.
Miranda shrugged one shoulder, rather an awkward gesture for her. "I had no place to go—no one would take in an old woman excommunicated for supposed witchcraft. We'd heard tell though that the survivors from those abbeys and churches in the north—those that had been through the Northman raids—they would come down here, usually by boat, and the Lady would take them in. Well, I had no idea who this "Lady" was, but I knew Saint Anne's. I made my way, sure enough." Then she chuckled at some hidden joke. "Turns out there's all sorts of the Lord's servants doing there duties in this abbey, and no mistake."
Methos remembered the gaggle of monks that had greeted him upon his entrance. "I, ah, I gathered that, yes."
Miranda smiled. "And the Lady even offers sanctuary to the pagans, bless her heart. We've got druids and old-time Celts pass through here to avoid the hangman, or the pyre—God forbid! And they call themselves servants of the Lord."
Methos heard the disdain in those words, the bitterness, and although he shared those sentiments discretion once again stayed his tongue. This was a place of worship, after all, and one whose walls most likely had many, many ears.
Miranda continued: "Now, I know as a servant of the Good Lord, I'm not supposed to be associating with pagans of any sort, but they really are a nice lot, once you get to know them. So much respect for The Lady, and for things that grow, and all God's creatures—even those that would persecute them. And I suppose it makes me hypocritical, wearing these robes even though I've been kicked out, but I figure—whose to stop me? Certainly not the Lady!" And she laughed again. Methos was starting to get the impression that she laughed often at life. How else would she have survived it?
"And I've learned so much from them in the time that I've been here. And since the Lady taught me my letters, I've been writing it all down for her. I write them and I study them, and I work in the infirmary, helping the Lady when peoples come through here needing healing."
Methos flashed a charming grin. "People like me?"
Miranda let out another bark of laughter, as though the that thought was utterly ridiculous. "Oh no, the Lady never lets me linger when one of the Blessed comes through. I didn't go back into the infirmary until she and her young lady left."
"The Blessed?" Methos asked, also sounding as if that idea was the ridiculous one.
"Those like the Lady, blessed by the Lord with the ability to heal themselves. Oh, she does't call it that, of course. But that's what you are, blessed."
Methos shook his head with a slight laugh before the right tumblers clicked and he picked up on the other striking part of that sentence. "You mentioned a young lady?" he prompted, trying his best to sound disinterested but probably not succeeding.
"Oh, that'll be the young Lady Amanda. Lady Rebecca brought her in a few seasons ago; one of the Blessed that needed time to heal. The Lady tells that Miss Amanda is very young, and needs looking after for a while. She's a nice girl. A jittery little thing though. Took her a while to warm up to us, even towards Lady Rebecca."
"I see," said Methos, his tone casual even though his mind was racing. So Rebecca's taken a new student.
"Well, here we are, young master." Miranda pushed open a heavy door to reveal a small chamber within. "Dinner should be ready soon. Just follow the crowds when you hear the bell. I'll be in the infirmary if you need anything."
Methos nodded his thanks and Miranda departed, shutting the door behind her.
Once in the room, Methos walked over to the small chest. He lit the oil lamp sitting on top of it, and then put the lamp on small bedside table. The only window in the room faced east, and wasn't letting in much light. Methos threw back the draperies and noted that the sun must have already set behind the western horizon, because on this eastern side, the Evening Star could already be seen, as well as the Mariner's, and a few other of the brighter spots of the heavens. Methos sighed contentedly, surprising himself. Surely the placement of his room was no accident.
Rather than admire the view, Methos sat on the bed, jouncing it a few times. The rope supports were tight, and the feather mattress, while lumpy, should be comfortable enough once beaten. An inspection of the chest revealed a spare blanket for the bed and nothing more. A bed, a chest, a lamp, and a small table: that's all there was to the tiny room. Though, for an abbey…
Then Methos noticed a washbowl and rag on the other side of the bed, placed on the floor so that the stone would keep the water cool. Methos chuckled in amusement before taking the bowl and rag and setting them on the chest. Then he stripped off the long tunic and proceeded to try and scrub off the grime of the past few days. Miranda had been thorough in her earlier washing, and all Methos was doing was erasing the memory of the past few days, more of ritual than of function. At any rate, it made him feel better. He used his reflection in the water in lieu of a looking glass, and splashed water on his hair, slicking it back into place and hoping that he now looked somewhat presentable.
Of course, how presentable can one look in a long tunic and no boots? To Methos's chagrin, Rebecca didn't even leave him a belt. When the dinner bell rang, he would stumble forth amongst the monks and nuns in a glorified dressing gown. Surely this slight humiliation was no more an accident that his spectacular view.
Almost in answer to his musings, the clear peal of a bell could be heard, loudly echoing off the stone walls and ceilings of the abbey. Dinner must be being served in the main hall… wherever that was. Methos left his small chamber in attempts to find the crowd that he was supposed to follow. Alas, he didn't see anyone, and with a tired sigh, Methos began plodding his way down the hallway, barefoot, feeling lost and a little put out.
And of course, dinner meant having to face Rebecca again. They hadn't seen each other in nearly two hundred years. He had no idea what to expect.
Finally Methos picked up the sounds of what could only have been a large gathering of people. He followed the clamor until it led him to what could only have been the Great Hall, and that's when he detected the immortal presence. Of course, the doors were closed. Tired of the games and of trying to guess at Rebecca's mind (and mostly just plain tired), Methos shoved the doors open without knocking. Instantly all conversation stopped and all eyes were upon him.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked flippantly.
"Not at all," came Rebecca's response, and Methos's eyes snapped to the location of the sound of her voice. Rebecca was seated at the center of the head table, in a rather ornate chair. Others whom Methos could only assume held some import in the abbey were seated in chairs to her left and right, and so was the young student Amanda that he recognized from the courtyard. "The Eofrea of the King's Men can take his seat at the head table," Rebecca continued, and that's when Methos noticed the empty chair on the end.
"Thank you, milady," Methos answered with a small, respectable bow. He then walked down the main isle between the two long tables. Apparently in order to maintain some sense of religious propriety, monks were seated on benches at the table on the left, and nuns were on the right. He couldn't help but smirk at this, even as he felt Rebecca's intense gaze upon him as he made his way to the head table, sitting at perpendicular angles ahead of the two long tables to roughly create the pi symbol.
As soon as Methos was seated, a servant appeared seemingly from nowhere and brought over a tray of food. From this tray Methos selected a generous proportion of whatever the dead, cooked, and edible thing was, as well as a nice slice of bread and an entire bunch of grapes. He thanked the servant, who retreated back into the woodwork.
Methos sat for a few moments staring at his food, waiting to receive some signal from Rebecca that it was acceptable to begin eating. None came, and eventually Methos chanced a glance down the table. Rebecca was chatting conversationally in middle Latin with a rather aged looking monk, but Methos was too far away to pick up any threads of conversation. With a sigh and a half shrug, he began his meal.
All through dinner Methos maintained a respectable silence, not even attempting to engage the young man seated next to him in conversation. From his bearing, Methos guessed him to be one of the Abbey's head guards, and he was quite content to attempt to flirt with the young maid seated next to him, who wore all the correct jewelry to signify a Celtic priestess. Rebecca never so much as glanced in his direction. However, he could feel the eyes of her young student upon him constantly. The one time he did glance up and make eye contact with her, she quickly dropped her gaze and returned to eating her apple, biting into it rather noisily. Methos laughed. He could forgive the girl her curiosity for now. What he was really interested in is a private conversation with Rebecca.
The cafe
No time lapse
"I couldn't help it!" Amanda defended. "You were a complete and utter mystery. Of course I was going to be curious!"
"But did you have to be so obvious about it?" Methos countered with amusement. "I was probably equally curious about Rebecca's new student, but did you catch me trying to bore holes into the side of your head?"
"Ha!" Amanda laughed. "Well at least I was willing to look up from my plate once and a while and try for eye contact."
"Oh, forgive me if I'm more taken with a decent meal than some kid on the arm of—an acquaintance." Methos caught himself just in time, and bit his lip in chagrin of the near slip.
"Methos?" Amanda asked, all banter and pretense forgotten.
"What?" he asked casually, as though his near slip had never happened.
"Why do you do that?" Amanda asked innocently, no traces of rebuke or sarcasm in her voice.
"Do what?" Methos returned, just as innocent.
"You get yourself on a role and then at the last minute, you change what you were going to say." Amanda informed, her voice betraying her curiosity.
"So I have the ability to censor myself," Methos said, shrugging. "It's a skill I suggest you learn."
Amanda recoiled slightly, stung, but she wasn't about to drop the issue. "You did that a lot over Christmas, too." she pointed out, shrugging off the pointed barb.
"Did what?"
Amanda released an exasperated sigh. "You know, you are so infuriating at times!"
"Was it something I said?"
Amanda shot him a withered look. "That's what I've been trying to talk about." She sighed again, and Methos grinned.
"I guess I'm still the complete and utter mystery."
"And I still can't help but be curious. But at least when Rebecca asked you questions, you would answer her."
"Ah." Methos's eyes were dancing. "But you are not Rebecca."
Amanda dropped her gaze for a moment, shifting uncomfortably. "No. No I'm not."
An awkward silence descended
"You must miss her a lot," Methos mused eventually, his entire persona shifting.
Amanda glanced up slowly to discover the bright green eyes of Adam Pierson resting upon her. Of course, they were so much more than Adam Pierson, but they were friendly and inviting nonetheless.
"Now who's boring holes into other people's heads?" she asked quietly, a slight smile dancing on her lips.
"And who's evading questions?" Methos returned.
Amanda smiled almost shyly, blushing slightly. "I do miss her," she answered, the plain and honest truth.
Methos nodded. "So do I, Amanda. So do I."
Amanda smiled brightly, indelibly cheered by the statement. "And you've had hundreds of more years with her than I had," she added, inferring only that Methos must have been quite close to Rebecca, as friends of centuries usually are. However, his expression changed then. It became harder, more stone-like. And his eyes turned over to gold.
"Rebecca and I had the same teacher," he said. "I've known her since she was a mere student, like you."
Amanda couldn't restrain her laugh. "Rebecca was never like me!" she exclaimed, and Methos smiled in fond memory.
"Oh, you'd be surprised." A small pause where they were both lost in their own thoughts. Then:
"You know, it never even occurred to me to try and contact Adræfan after Rebecca died," said Amanda. "I'm sorry."
"I was with the watchers anyway," Methos answered. "I probably learned of it before you did."
"I didn't even think of it until Marcus called," she added. "He asked me how you took the news."
Methos laughed. "And how is old Marcus these days?"
Amanda shrugged. "Still working for the museum, I suppose. And still mourning his wife." Methos nodded sympathetically. "But I really am sorry Methos." Her voice as sincere as Methos has ever known it.
He shrugged in response. "Don't worry about it," he said dismissively. "You were working on avenging her at the time anyway. That was more important."
Amanda nodded. Then she looked up suddenly, scrutinizing. "Do you think… I dunno, do you think that Rebecca would have been happy, with the way things turned out?"
Methos sat back in his chair, biting back a gasp. Amanda instantly regretted her phrasing, for surely Methos was thinking of the Methuselah stone.
"With MacLeod killing Luthor, I mean," she clarified.
"Oh that," said Methos, his efforts to restrain his thoughts showing visibly on his person. "I think so, Amanda. I think she would have wanted her quickening to go to the boy scout." Amanda laughed at the use of MacLeod's nickname. "But I know you would have rather it been you."
Amanda sighed. "I tried. I couldn't beat him. Duncan had to save my ass again."
"That's the way the game is played," Methos said sagely, for he had no words of comfort of offer her.
Amanda simply nodded. "But is the game played by immortals simply lying down the sword and giving their heads to the enemy?" she added bitterly.
"The Ancient thought so," Methos pointed out, his voice taking on an odd quality that Amanda couldn't place.
"But his quickening changed Darius. That worked out for the best! What did Rebecca's quickening do for Luthor?"
"Luthor wasn't worthy of her power, Darius was," said Methos, and Amanda could tell that the truth of the admittance pained him greatly.
"It all seems such a waste," Amanda lamented.
"Not totally," Methos amended. "Rebecca's strength is with Duncan now."
Amanda nearly nodded, knowing that Methos was right. But still… "What good is her strength?" Amanda asked, the bitterness returning. "Look what it did for Luthor."
"She didn't give her strength to Luthor. He only got her quickening. Her strength she gave to Duncan."
Amanda couldn't help but laugh. "Do you really think it works that way?"
Methos merely shrugged and smiled, in that way where none can tell exactly how serious he is. "It's how I sleep at night," he added as an afterthought, and there was truth in the admission.
Silence descended once again as each retreated back to their own thoughts.
"I never took you for one to need assurances before sleep," Amanda said eventually.
"Well what did you take me for then?" Methos challenged, his tone serious but amusement lingered in his eyes.
Amanda shrugged. "I dunno," she confessed. "But you were just so damned arrogant the first time we met, and first impressions count for a lot."
"Later impressions can count for more, Leaswene," Methos pointed out. "And I most certainly was not arrogant."
"Oh yes you were," Amanda returned, but Methos childishly shook his head.
"Was not."
"Were too."
Abbey St. Anne
No time lapse
Slowly but surely, the crowd began to dissipate. Servants came to clear the tables as the monks, nuns, and other denizens departed the great hall in search of evening's entertainment or evening's prayers. Finally it was just Methos, Rebecca, Amanda, and a guard. The guard wasn't seated at the table though. He had moved into a defensive position behind Rebecca's chair.
As if on some hidden cue, both Methos and Rebecca looked down the length of the table at the same time, making eye contact. Rebecca's eyes were cold and scrutinizing, absolutely no emotion betrayed. Methos's first instinct was to look away, but something deep inside decided to deny Rebecca the satisfaction. Instead he nodded to her briefly before rising. Methos intended to seat himself in the free chair next to Rebecca, but the presence of the guard made him think twice about that. Instead he sat a chair away. All this time Rebecca regarded him intently, as did her student. But the student, Amanda, seemed merely curious, if not slightly shy. Indeed, she must be quite young.
"You prepare a fine meal," Methos offered conversationally.
"You'll have to thank Cook for that," said Rebecca, her voice cool and distant.
"I'll make a note of that," Methos returned, sarcasm in his voice as he nodded, nearly mocking.
Rebecca was unmoved. "So what brings the Eofrea of King Æthelwulf to my gates?" she asked, returning the sentiments of Methos's voice. Amanda merely looked on with childlike fascination. "And in such pleasant company."
"How did you know my office?" Methos asked, surprised, and before he could stop himself.
Rebecca showed no emotion at having caught him off his guard. "You wore the emblem of the Horse Lords upon your tunic, trimmed in gold. That is still the king's color of choice, is it not?"
Methos shrugged, admitting defeat. "It is," he conceded. "For eight years I have been in the King's service as a tamer of horses."
"Methos and his horses," Rebecca scoffed, disdain coloring her voice.
Methos wasn't surprised by this reaction, but Amanda was. She glanced quickly between the two immortals, not daring to interrupt but praying that her questions would be answered.
"I take it you approve," Methos said flippantly, not really caring about her opinions in that moment, nor that she had called him Methos. At this time he wasn't yet the oldest living immortal, and it wasn't his real name anyway. "And I have left that name behind me."
Rebecca laughed, but there was cruelty in it, the likes of which Amanda had never heard. "Have you now," Rebecca pondered in detached amusement. Then: "Carrock, leave us."
The guard wavered for a second, but the look Rebecca fixed him with left no room for argument, so he nodded curtly and left. Methos had a hunch that he would be waiting just outside the door, however.
"Tell me then, Tamer of Horses, what name I am to call you now?" Rebecca asked after the guard had departed, sarcasm dripping from the words.
"In the King's court I am known as Adræfan," Methos supplied, bowing slightly and awkwardly from his chair, a mocking grin plastered on his face.
Rebecca smirked. "Your name is 'exile'? Well, I suppose that is a fitting title for you."
"You're one to talk," Methos came right back. "Since when does a Mycenean take an Israelite name?"
"Names are not taken, Methos, they are given," Rebecca reminded him, her entire mood changing with that one sentence. "You of all people should know that."
Methos couldn't help but break eye contact, looking down and away swiftly.
"And your knowledge of languages is slipping," Rebecca continued. "I had to Latinize the Hebrew name in order to find acceptance among the Christians."
"Since when do you seek the approval of organized religion?" Methos retorted, ignoring the additional insult looked up again.
He saw Rebecca's eyes harden.
"Since I want to avoid having this Sanctuary razed to the ground." Rebecca's voice was positively chilling. "You of all people should know that not even the ones in power can keep the Holy Places safe, but that is my hope."
Methos stifled a wince and dropped his gaze to the floor. Me of all people…"It is a good hope, Lady Rebecca," he said after a while, not looking up.
Amanda could have sworn that his voice was sincere, but Rebecca merely laughed. "And what hopes have you, Adræfan Eofrea, that brought you here to me at need?"
Methos took a deep breath and looked up, hoping to meet Rebecca's eyes with something more than coldness and contempt. His naked honesty was met by an unreadable mask, however, and he felt despair begin to claim him.
"The need for sanctuary, Lady Rebecca," he confessed. "I need protection from the court of the King."
Rebecca's eyes flashed dangerously. "Do you know what it is you ask of me?" she asked, her tone guarded. Once again Amanda looked back and forth between them, her mind alit with burning questions and deeply frustrated that she could not speak them.
Methos nodded in response to Rebecca's question. "If you mean to deny me, please tell me now," he said, the air of confidence returning. "So that I may be gone from here by first light."
Amanda watched as her teacher held eye contact with the stranger, neither of them breaking, for many long moments. Then Rebecca cursed in a language Amanda didn't recognize.
"I cannot deny you," Rebecca confessed at last, her entire demeanor softening. She gazed upon him now with the same airs that Amanda saw from her before, when Methos was still dead. Methos sighed visibly in relief, and Rebecca smirked. "I have never turned a soul away," she added. "And I certainly do not intend to start with you."
Methos smiled gratefully, but neither he nor Amanda could tell exactly what was meant by that statement.
"You have my thanks, Lady Rebecca," he said sincerely.
"Do not thank me yet," Rebecca cautioned. "Your pursuers will no doubt return here seeking you."
"If they threaten you, I will leave of my own volition," Methos proclaimed with quiet vehemence.
Rebecca seemed honestly surprised by the statement. "Let us hope it does not come to that, Eofrea."
Methos nodded. It seemed that in that moment, all prior tensions and insecurities melted away. Methos smiled openly and warmly at Rebecca, who returned one of her own with equal sincerity. Methos noted how good it was to see her smile like that again.
"My dear Rebecca," he said Methos after a moment, successfully regaining hers and Amanda's attention. "While your consideration and selfless generosity is just as flagrant as I remember, I'm afraid that your propriety has slipped as of late."
"Propriety?" Rebecca asked, confused.
Methos flashed his fallen cherubim smile. "You have yet to introduce me to your student."
AN- At the time this story's flashback takes place, the Vikings already have a history of raiding northern Christian settlements and plundering abbeys, churches, monasteries, and convents. Miranda infers in this chapter that the survivors of those holy places, for lack of elsewhere to go, have returned by either boat or land to the seat of Anglo Saxon culture, namely Wessex, where St. Anne is located. Rebecca's sanctuary is a welcome haven for these refugees, and many never leave. Also, the Christian conversion is in full swing, but not everyone is Christian yet. Rebecca, older than this new religion, does not exclude pagans the right to sanctuary here. Indeed, she has never turned a soul away. Many pagans remain as well, to escape persecution from the ever-increasing Christian population.
